Posts Tagged ‘Narrative’

Damn it, I did it again. A week of protracted writing and piece meal additions to an article left it nearly unintelligible. On the plus side during this torturous process I discovered that the fundamental conceit of the article was false, based on what I believed my own gaming proclivities to be, rather than what they actually are. Initially I was asserting that good character design is integral to making a good narrative focused game. Be it a title that allows you to make your own choices, or follow a predestined path, if a game does not create a sympathetic or relatable role or motivation for the player then the experience will fall flat. If that flaws last sentence has you fuming at your computer, I can see why, because I was clearly wrong.

Having conceded my error in judgment, I set about deconstructing why I had arrived at my conclusion in the first place. It transpired that in forming my theory I had approached the topic from the wrong angle. Like water hitting a ladle when washing up, my inaccurate positioning of the idea had resulted in misdirected spray, and the appearance of wetting oneself. My error is plain enough in retrospect; a character has little affect on a good game, but it can make a mediocre game better, or a god-awful game bearable, by creating an incentive to continue when gameplay alone is not enough.

I should have realised my mistake earlier. Coming at the topic from two bad games, I’m Not Alone and Deadly Premonition; I was trying to shoehorn quality titles in to my argument to support a shaky premise instead of looking at my evidence. In trying to argue Gears of War worked because Marcus was driven by simple relatable emotions, I neglected that it was the quality of the game that propelled Marcus beyond his two-dimensional nature. To say this clearly the reason I’m Not Alone sits as perhaps the worst game I have every played, while Deadly Premonition is entertaining, is because of each titles lead protagonist.

I could no doubt find multiple other games to help me inform my position here, but Deadly Premonition and I’m Not Alone are ideally suited for comparison as they so closely parallel each other in key areas. From the onset neither game does anything to impress. Graphically both offer bland flat environments that look like original Xbox offerings. Yet somehow both succeeded in creating fantastically ghoulish adversaries whom have to be dispatched through combat that is unwieldy due to unusually (and at times antiquated) interface decisions. These are just a few examples of the vast array of problems each game possess, which leaves them fundamentally flawed. Yet where Deadly Premonition rises above the sum of its parts, I’m Not Alone is sent spiralling ever lower from its position second-rate.

Initially I thought that the root of the separation of each titles success originated with their stories, but both feature investigations of occult powers that offer some genuine (if poorly presented) intrigue. Managing to hook me with their underlying stories alone was not enough though, because while I found myself wrestling with Deadly Premonition for numerous hours, I’m Not Alone protagonist quickly soured me.

Deadly Premonition centres on a FBI agent York, an interesting character who suffers from multiple personality disorder, leaving him constantly talking to his other personality ‘Zack’. He is detached, but believable so. Like a Jeff Goldblum character, Agent York frequently disappears inside his own thoughts, delivering insightful, or at the very least amusing, monologues. It is fascinating overhearing the half conversations he has with his other persona, especially when he reminisces about eighties movies. He provides a draw that, combined with the Twin Peaks styled story, extends far beyond the games limited core.

In contrast I’m Not Alone’s lead, Patrick Weber, is a shit (I would use stronger language but I am scared my mom will read this post). From the start he is over confident, condescending and generally a dick to everything that crosses his path. Add to these flaws the fact there is no sense of trepidation at the otherworldly abominations he confronts, and the result is a distant character, who (unlike York) has no reason to be detached. With every emotion he displayed being at odds with the tension of the story and the unease I felt as a player, it became impossible to empathise with him, so the motivation to follow his tale quickly faded. Ultimately I’m Not Alone failed for me because I was more interested in seeing the ghosts that attacked Patrick find some measure of peace  from their plight by killing him than I ever was in helping him escape the mansion.

Characters are not as key to a games success as I initially supposed, but I still feel they can work in conjunction with other factors to support weaker titles. Perhaps this is commonsense; after all we play games for the ‘game’, but part of me always believed I was more interested in their narratives and worlds, with the play mechanic just serving as my locomotion through them. On reflection I realise that I have been lying to myself about my own habits. As I look at my own collection I see the answer staring back at me, games with interesting premises that I have abandoned because of poor gameplay, while other titles with appalling stories and characters sit finished thanks to core mechanics that entertained.

I use games to escape into other worlds, to live other lives I would otherwise never experience. I don’t demand that they are heavenly existences, indeed I relish in the prospect of living through things that in reality I would never want to witness. But at the end of these trials, after the saving the city, the world, the Universe I seem to be becoming more and more cognisant of the fact that my character and I end up getting stiffed.

I know that the self-sacrificing hero is nothing new. Works of literature are littered with examples of the hero who gives everything for a cause. These acts of altruism serve as shining examples to us all to contradict man’s selfish nature, something to aspire to and live our lives by, even if we never do. Participating in these acts through gaming offers a greater sense of accomplishment, a feeling that we are doing right thing. It is certainly more satisfying to be the martyr than to play the protagonists who are out only for themselves. Even though my own acts are driven by a desire to complete a story, unlock a weapon or earn achievement points, I manage in some small part through my character to vicariously live their virtue.

But it’s wearing a bit thin. I have played a significant number of games in recent years, and yet it is rare indeed that at the end of my adventure did I feel I had done my character any favours by putting them through the experience. It seems that unless everybody ends up thoroughly unhappy a game doesn’t feel like it has done its job properly. I know that this is a cheap trick to facilitate a sequel, the ‘happy ending’ being trampled for the good of a franchise but this is getting out of control.

In the past few years I have left my hero: with everyone he loves dead (at least three times), stabbed, about to go to/continue in a war (three times), on the run from the police (at least once), turning into a zombie, turning in to an alien, about to be killed by his alien girlfriend, demented, fleeing from a god, an alcoholic out cast, eaten, raped, and dying or dead (in excess of twice). Set this against the up-lifting endings I remember for my antagonists and I see: a burgeoning romance, defeating a long time adversary before heading home and champion of a tournament.

It all seems a little disproportionate. I am all for pathos but this is overdoing it somewhat. Overcoming adversity within course of a story is one thing but the current trend to leave the player on a downer is becoming a little too prevalent. In a world where the majority of the news we receive doesn’t do much to lift our spirits it would be nice if my pastime of choice would.

Is it so wrong to want to feel at the end of my game that I left the world a better place, and also the ‘life’ of my avatar? Is it too much to ask that the characters I have poured so much of myself into can at least walk away from the experience without their first act to being to off themselves?

Maybe it is the games I choose to play that is the problem. But should an adult theme and story necessitate that I will be left feeling in someway unsuccessful? I am and adult, I don’t want to play Disney and ‘Imagine’ titles for the rest of my days. I want complex deep narratives but does this desire mean I am doomed to constantly be reminded that the world is an unfair place, where no amount of sacrifice or hard work will ever really make me happy or protect me from harm? I know this already, I’m nearing thirty, I don’t need to have it thrust down my throat every time I play a game.

It is too late in the day to be reviewing Killzone 2. This is a look at the things I took away from the single player game, primarily the execution of its story. As such it contains a few spoilers towards the end. Nothing drastic that will affect your enjoyment of the game but things to think about if you have or do.

Many reviews commented on the story’s short comings. A problem I believe was born from conflicted directions in the overall vision for the game and struggling to settle on an overarching theme. While the graphical tone and hopeless nature of the story are a persistent and suffocating through out, there seems to be disparity between some incidental scenes and the message it wants to convey at its culmination.

In some ways KZ2 tries to mimic the Call of Duty games by focusing not on your character but your squad during a single battle in a larger conflict. It is an undertaking in which developers Guerrilla succeed and fail at in near equal measure. For much of the game the focus is on those around you, keeping your character relatively faceless. This is often achieved remarkably successfully due to the fidelity of the graphics, but there are a few instances when the illusion is broken. Part of the problem are the occasions its pulls out into the third person. These establish a different dynamic between you and the character. It isn’t you any more. You are not witnessing this battle, it’s the protagonist you control (Sgt. Sevchenko) who while devoid of personality is no longer just a ball of clay for you to mould in your image.

Facial animation manages to convey emotions effectively; unfortunately the emotions seen are often hard to reconcile with the characters actions.

During this shift something else happens, you lose the everyman feeling. This is in part because of the challenges that fall to you. You take on everything from siege machines to Generals and triumph. But Sev’s efficiency on the battle field renders the games attempts at making him unimportant and sensitive implausible. It loops back to the idea that there were two forces at work. One wanted a story which made the odds seem insurmountable while the other was the marketing department. A ‘Fuck yeah!’ here and a flying-machine-filled-with-fiery-electric-death there and pretty soon you end feel like Marcus Phoenix, with smaller shoes. So after managing to decimate more than half a world’s military forces single handed the emotional conflict they try to force on your character feels incongruous.

This fracture (which for the sake of argument I will define as between narrative and marketing) seems to run through the majority of the game. It seems one side of Guerrilla were trying to pass a commentary on the futility and duality of war by placing you as a lowly grunt trying to survive the orders of your superiors, watching the death around you. As they wrestled with the task though the other half of the company seemed hell-bent on trying to demonise the Helghast antagonists. Their Nazi appearance serves merely as a convenient touch stone to for what the story depicts them engaged in, their torture, jingoism and elitisms. It makes them seem like an enemy worthy of eradication. If this was just a summer blockbuster movie style of game then this depiction of the foe would function perfectly but there are constant hints of something else. An alternate plot that was maybe too unpalatable for the marketers and the mass audience they hoped to reach. In truth you are the invading army, the aggressors. Members of your squad become progressively more brutal, and in the end they too commit war crimes, but it all seems marginalised in the overall context of the game.

I needed to squeeze this game quote in here somewhere, “What makes this train so important? It’s either going somewhere or carrying something important.”

The possibilities for what was perhaps original intended are echoed in the ending. As after hearing the Helghast leader’s (Brian Cox) final poignant (and convincing) soliloquy you character walks outside and in the one moment which justifies the third person perspective, looks totally broken by everything he has seen. If the rest of the game had been more committed in the build up to this moment the story would have carried gravitas. It would have left meaningful questions about the characters and what is to happen to them. I could have left you reflecting on the implications of this tiny battle in the context of the war and wondering if the whole thing was futile. Rather than that though the only question it leaves us with is whether a sequel will be announced, which is only a disappoint because of what it could have been.

Often when we talk about games being art we approach the subject in terms of definitions. People seem to forget that usually to the observer art elicits something more than a pragmatic break down of its construction. Unless specifically tasked to do so, I rarely look at a painting or listen to music and dissect it. I see the work in its entirety and feel the emotions it provokes.

When I approach a game it is in much the same way. Some parts of me will immediately assess it on a level of technical competence but my reaction is an emotional one towards the design aesthetic and story. It is the range of emotions that a game can elicit however than make the medium less versatile than most of its contemporaries as an art form.

Games side towards more aggressive, adrenaline fueled reactions. These are no less worthy responses to art than any other emotion, but if these are the only feelings games are able to conjure then does undermine their merit as an art form? If it cannot convey more subtle or sensitive emotions effectively then is it less than its peers?

Some more recent and niche titles are attempting to redress this balance and introduce a greater range of sentiment. For instance Braid’s story centers on the protagonist’s quest to repair a broken relationship (explicitly at least). This move is currently being made by independent developers, who produce such titles as downloadable releases to limit the cost and risk but this limits their sales and exposure. Fortunately as in all media indie trends are starting to filter down (or up) into mainstream titles.

Ico is one such full release which springs to mind. By revolving it game mechanic and story around a dependent partner, Yorda, it creates an attachment rarely experienced in games. Your wards vulnerability makes the connection you form incredibly powerful and it achieves without the use of language, relying instead on the interaction and tactile feedback felt between the characters. Even blockbuster title like Gears of War 2 now try to introduce more sensitive elements to their story as we see (the character) Dom’s quest to be reunited with his wife forming much of the game’s narrative drive.

But the question posed by the title of this article stands; will a game ever make us cry? It is a question which requires some clarification. For some we may have already reached a point where a game can educe such powerful emotions, but the trigger is never the game itself. The gameplay, the element that defines it as a game is not instigator but a story element usually expressed through a cut scene or similar device.

I don’t know if this is something that will ever be achieved, the barriers maybe insurmountable. The narrative function play provides is not the slow, contemplative segments but the fraught action. People simply don’t experience sentimental moments during the adrenalin rush, it comes in the subsequent lull. We may soon experience a greater range of emotions during our time engaged with a game but I suspect it will be a long time until we feel them during our actual interactions.